


Golden Notes

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Mairon is the Best Roleplayer, Mild Footplay, More tags will be added later, Rough Sex, Submission, out of chronological order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: A story can be captured in a song, with each note a small glimpse into the lives of those involved. A song that spans centuries, millenia, all the way from the beginning of time.Small scenes depicting Melkor and his most trusted lieutenant, the fallen Maia, Mairon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mairon has a kink for being able to serve his master even after being exhausted from their nights together.

There was a faint charred smell in Mairon’s nose, wafting through the small pieces of his mind that could still think, at first not registering with the rest of his thoughts until it finally came into clarity with a startling delay. He must have burnt the bed sheets again, he could feel them still gripped in his hands but—

Another harsh thrust from his lord ripped that stray thought from his mind and a loud, broken groan came from him at the feeling. He was back in the present again, face pressed into the pillows of Melkor’s bed, muffling all of the moans and cries that the other was dragging out of him with his relentless, frenzied movements. One hand was tangled in his hair, its grip tight enough to tug at his roots and for strands of it to spill all across blackened fingers like rivers of fire, and the other clawed down his gracefully bent back, following the curve of his spine. Melkor could rarely keep himself still when he was taking his Maia, his hands constantly roamed around his hips, his back, his chest, anywhere he could reach, his nails dragging across his skin and adding a counterpoint of pain to the pleasure.

And Marion loved it. He loved how his master hit him so hard inside that he knew he would ache long afterwards, because _he_ made his master feel that way. Bedding Melkor was something akin to bedding a lightning storm, but Mairon could tell that with him something was different, when he was in his master’s bed Melkor would go _insane._ It was the same desperate, chaotic fury that had allowed him to defy even the will of Eru at the very beginning of the world, the same one that pushed him to destroy the efforts of the Valar again and again, that burning flame inside of him that could not be quenched by any setback or defeat. It was that core part of Melkor that drove him on like an endless fire, caused him to pull mountains out of the earth and smash them back down into lakes of lava, caused him to be defiant just _because._ And Mairon could touch that part of him, somehow, whether it be by words or actions or perhaps his very essence, something in him awoke that brought every bit of his raging, tumultuous nature to the surface (not that it was far removed from it, though) and pour it into the Maia.

Mairon took it all, every bit of that rage and energy that Melkor poured into him, the only being who could truly handle it without being torn to pieces in the Vala’s excitement. Not that it didn’t come close, pain and pleasure overwhelming him in equal measures as Melkor stretched him again and again—he buried his face into the covers, screaming into them because if he didn’t he was going to _die._ Oh yes the bed was definitely on fire now, he could feel the flames licking his between fingers and the light of his own blazing ëala searing behind his closed eyelids. Yet Melkor either didn’t notice or didn’t care, his unceasing thrusts did not even hesitate as he pressed his weight on top of Mairon, forcing him down even further and digging his nails into his hips so hard Mairon could feel his skin breaking open.

All of it fanned the flames of his desire, his nerves starved of any sensation that wasn’t this incredible, burning pleasure that threatened to tear apart his body at the seams. He forced his corporeal form to stay together even as it flickered, narrowing down all of his concentration on the feeling of his lord inside of him. It was both an anchor and the very thing that threatened to break him apart.

Sensing Mairon’s struggle only encouraged Melkor, it seemed, and Mairon was foolish to think that he couldn’t possibly get any more fierce and destructive in his movements except he _did._ It was filling Mairon up, body and soul as Melkor pressed his ëala down on his own, not strangling, but the feeling crackled along his very essence like lightning, like the hottest ice and coldest flame, all of it driven in deeper by the relentless pounding that made him open wider and wider, simply _giving—_

He screamed into the pillows again as he came undone, his energy only staying tethered to its physical form because Melkor was still pinning him there. Pleasure flashed white in his eyes, erasing all other sensations for a while except what his lord was doing to him, dragging his climax on and on until another one split his body at the same time as Melkor’s, washing over him in a wave of incredible heat and bliss. Mairon sagged, his muscles weak and abused, his pleasure erasing most of the ache so far but he knew that wouldn’t last long.

Strong hands gripped him, pulling him into a different position onto his side, his back pressed up against Melkor’s chest as the other just held him there. It was a different kind of possessiveness, but then again Melkor was the pure embodiment of possessiveness, while Mairon loved being possessed. He nuzzled against the crook of the Vala’s arm a little, eliciting a soft chuckle from the other at the action and a pair of lips to close around the tip of his ear.

“Would there be something as simple as a pitcher of water around here?” Melkor breathed into his ear, his voice audibly cracked even in its husky whisper.

Immediately Mairon sat up, a loud hiss spilling through his teeth at the pain that decided to make its presence known at the movement. Not sharp pain, he wasn’t injured this time, but that bone-deep ache that in some ways could be even worse. But he didn’t care about that, he knew where the water was and he stood up to get the pitcher, forcing his legs not to stumble too much. No matter what state he was in, _he_ was Melkor’s most trusted lieutenant and servant, he would never sit back and let anyone else do something for Melkor when it was equally in his power to do. It sent a thrill through his spine, still able to perform his duties even after what he went through, pushing on through it because his master _needed_ it.

He could feel Melkor’s gaze on his back as he poured water from the pitcher into an ornate cup, marvelling at how it hadn’t frozen solid or boiled away with their recent activities. Then when he turned and made his way back, he was forced to meet his master’s eyes, like silver-veined ice that sparked with an inner fire, all alight with a deep amusement as he watched Mairon. Wordlessly, Melkor held out his hand for the goblet and Mairon passed it to him without the slightest tremble in his arm. Then Melkor patted the spot next to him and Mairon slid back into it gratefully, still trying to be graceful even through his ache. Internally, though, he was beaming as he watched Melkor drink, pride inflamed at the sight.

His master needed no other servants. Not while he had _him._

A chuckle made him look up. “You are so amusing, little one,” Melkor said as he saw the gaze of liquid gold turned on him. His other hand began to play through Mairon’s locks of hair again even as the other offered the rest of the cup.

Mairon took it gratefully, trying to ignore the flush creeping up his cheeks. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said and drank. Normally he hated water, but this was cool, sweet bliss on his abused throat.

Another laugh, and just as he put the cup down Melkor dragged him close again, holding him to his chest. “Of course you don’t, _my most faithful Maia,”_ Melkor whispered into his ear, his cold breath ghosting over hot skin.

Mairon shuddered all over and buried his face in the other’s chest, feeling wayward strands of dark hair falling over him like ensnaring spider webs. As if even they wanted to grab onto him. “You honor me, my lord,” he whispered against the skin he found there, daring to place a kiss there as he spoke.

“Oh yes, I do,” Melkor murmured, pleased to see his lieutenant knew precisely how much that praise meant. “Now rest on me, I wish to gaze at you more easily from here.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

He moved like silk among shadows, gliding through the halls of the frozen fortress, unnoticed as a ghost. Even with the golden glow of light that surrounded his divine form, workers and soldiers and other twisted, hunched forms toiling away in the darkness barely looked up as he passed by. It was only seconds after he had vanished, long after he was still able to be seen, did the servants seem to notice a shadow of his presence pass by and gazed around them, all hopelessly as he would be long gone by that time. Right now, Mairon liked it that way.

There were times when he burned as brightly as a forge fire, his light unfurling from him like the petals to a flower. His being could come upon others like a thousand trumpets, demanding attention, unable to be ignored, brash and fiery and bold and shining with all of the brilliance of a star. Many times, that was how he wanted it, but now he wrapped his presence around himself like a veil. He was naught more than a whisper, an edge of a thought that flitted by, the glow of a dying coal under ashes. Such a shapeshifter as he could clothe himself in many forms of being, both subtle and magnificent.

Melkor was unable to do the same. It was simply not in his nature to appear less than he was. He could of course take different forms, but all of them were mighty. His steps were a war march, his looming aura rolling out from him just as oil-black clouds drifted across the sky from his mountains of fire, so one could sense him coming long before they ever saw him. But to behold him was both awe and terror, as his visage was as coldly brilliant as fields of ice bathed in the light of distant stars.

Only Mairon loved gazing into that face, and even then there were times when he had the urge to shrink away from it.

Utumno was always cold, beating in the frozen heart of Arda as it was. Mairon steamed wherever he went, shimmering and twisting the air around him with his heat even when he was hiding himself. The walls were bitter and snapped at the hand that touched them, and the jilted steps careened upward like the mockery of the mountains and spiralling staircases  that Melkor had looked upon and hated and then made in his own odd sense of beauty.  Mairon sprang lightly up the steps, knowing how easy it was to misplace a foot and fall back down, and halfway through he simply gave up and swirled into the form of a bird.

A piece of golden light, each feather glowing as softly as a candle flame, he raced up the stairwell, dancing around and around in sharp spaces until he burst into the open air at the very top of the fortress. And there the wind never ceased to howl and claw at the stones, and the battlements and ground and banners were forever adorned with spears of ice and a sheen of snow. He immediately changed back to his true form, lest the wind blow him away like a leaf, and beheld the back of his master in front of him, standing at the edge of the wall looking out over the frozen wasteland he ruled.

The air around him hissed as it steamed and his footsteps left great pools of water behind him that began to refreeze the moment he continued onward. Then he bowed, only a few feet away from Melkor, just out of reach of the edges of his dark cape that flapped about in the wind. “Master,” he said, his voice snatched away from him, but he knew he did not have to speak so loudly for his lord to hear him.

Melkor’s head turned ever so slightly, the corner of a brilliant eye staring down at him before it turned away. “Little flame,” Melkor acknowledged him, one gloved hand reaching up and beckoning him closer. “Come stand with me here, and see the how my dominion stretches over all of Middle Earth.”

Mairon rose from his bow. “Of course, my Lord,” he said with a smile, easily and effortlessly sliding up to Melkor’s side. It was where he should be and where he belonged. He absolutely loathed the cold, but wandering those dark and empty halls was far, far worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's a bit of mild footplay in this one, but it's not the main focus of the story at all. However if you don't like such things you can skip over this chapter! I won't hold it against you.

It was hard to tell precisely what was falling outside of the window at the moment. The cold was harsh and bitter, rigid as the edge of a sword, so snow was the most likely answer. However Thangorodrim’s peaks were currently burning, spewing out their thick black smoke to strangle any light that might try to make its way through to the valley below, so it could have very easily been ash as well. Or perhaps it was snow dyed gray through all of the smog while it made its journey below.

To others, the Eldar and Men and Valar, it would be seen as desolate. But no such beings like that lived in Angband. To them, the weather was actually quite pleasant and cozy.

Melkor was sometimes very much like his brother, Mairon mused as he traced his fingertips along his lord’s calf, admiring the feeling under him. Not that he would ever dare say that out loud, but the similarities could be seen. They were mirrors, Melkor and Manwë. The King of the Valar was as pale as his clouds that he loved so dearly, whereas Melkor was the color of clouds when they filled with tumultuous rain and thunder, that alluring deep gray tinged with just the smallest hint of blue. His hair was so black even it had some blue inside in a twisted, dark version of Manwë’s pristine snowy locks. And yet their faces were so very alike, enough to be frightening, even.

But those were the only ones. Even as he stroked, Mairon felt his fingers hit a snag, a sudden warping of what was once smooth flesh. He paused, his gaze flicking down to the scar he had encountered. Halfway up the calf, relatively shallow compared to what it could have been, made by the edge of a blade striking flesh. No doubt it came from Fingolfin’s, no one else had ever gotten so near to his master to wound him in such a fashion. Manwë never came close enough to true fighting to ever have someone injure him like this. Very few of the other Valar did, it was only his master, who fought and strove to make his own place in Arda all for the simple crime of wanting to do something _different_ that led to this path that ended in ruined flesh. _That_ was what made Melkor so different from his brother.

The very thought sent a flicker of anger inside of him and he pushed past it, ignoring it until he traced down Melkor’s ankle, then along the top of his foot, following the gentle curve. He splayed his fingers against the Vala’s flesh, feeling the pulsing of his veins against his palm.

And the bump of a much deeper, more debilitating scar on the inner curve. Ah yes, that one. His lord’s limp had been growing steadily less pronounced as time passed, but that did not help his anger at all. The only thing that _did_ help, though, was the thought of how that pathetic elf king was slowly but surely crushed under the weight of his better, the pain and despair that he must have felt despite his ridiculous attempt at one last strike.

“What are you thinking about?” Melkor’s soft voice rumbled to his ears, hooking his attention away from his thoughts with its impossible to resist draw.

Just like that his building rage was blown away like so much ash in the wind. Mairon turned to look at the Vala, immediately caught by the burning eyes, and felt a small grin curling at his lips. “Just of your battle with the Noldor king, my Lord,” he said smoothly, curling his fingers and tracing slow circles as he spoke.

“Ah yes, his foolish attempt to beat me in combat,” Melkor drawled, his brows coming into a light scowl. “And that most irritating wound he left behind, damned elf. But all of that made it more satisfying to feel his bones grind to dust under me when I won.” Despite his words, his expression did not lift. “Why would you think of that? You know I despise Eldar and all of their kin.”

Mairon did not mention the fact that it had been Melkor who asked the question in the first place. Instead the Maia bent his head, the only way to bow in his position, and said, “I was merely thinking of how you crushed his frail body under your mighty foot.” He shifted himself so he could bend down completely, taking Melkor’s foot gently in both hands and placing a kiss right on top. He could _hear_ the hitch in the Vala’s breath and allowed himself a small, hidden smirk, knowing precisely how to turn Melkor’s thoughts away from the elf . “Like this,” he whispered, sitting up so his master could see him and then placing his foot against his neck.

As always, his master’s skin was cool to the touch, and Mairon felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as Melkor pushed against him. It was such a vulnerable position for him to be in, he could feel the blood in his veins beating against the pressure against them, threatening to make him dizzy. His eyes flicked up to Melkor’s face and this time it was _his_  turn for his breath to stutter in his throat when they locked with the piercing, pinning gaze that burned with the radiance of faceted diamonds. For a moment Mairon even fancied that he felt his heart freeze, too.

A grin curled Melkor’s lips, wicked and clearly delighting in the change that came over his lieutenant. “Oh _yes,”_ he rumbled, his deep voice rippling in the air and leaving the space between them trembling like a plucked string. “But not quite. The elf was beneath me, instead.”

The implication could not have been more obvious. The pull of his lord’s voice was like a magnet, like the tides, and utterly irresistible. Mairon moved immediately, as mindless as a puppet having its strings pulled, but he knew that every action was his own. He slid off the bed, eternally graceful even in his current position, and laid himself on the floor without a second of hesitation. “Like this, my lord?” he whispered, his excitement strangling his voice to a mere shadow of what it normally was. After a second of thought he raised his head ever so slightly so he could free his hair from where it was pinned and flip it outwards, the bright locks splaying around his head as if he had just been knocked down in a fight. Then he laid his hands on either side of his head and stared up at his master with his wide, golden eyes.

Melkor had followed him, watching his movements with that same, unblinking intensity that made his heart race in his chest. With him on the ground like this and Melkor towering over him Mairon could feel just how tall his fellow Ainu truly was, his shining eyes seeming to be as distant as Varda’s stars in this moment. “Yes,” Melkor whispered huskily, placing his foot against Mairon’s neck with careful, deliberate slowness and pressing down. “ _Exactly_ like that.”

A small, ever-observant part of Mairon’s brain thrilled at the knowledge that the curve of Melkor’s foot matched his neck almost perfectly, until then the increasing tightness of his throat was all he could focus on. He held no foolish illusions in his mind that his master would be gentle, it was _Melkor_  after all, but he was so agonizingly slow that it somehow made the whole scene far more exciting, more desperate and a mad part of him wanted to arch _into_ the touch. His breathing was becoming ragged, his windpipe closing under the weight until he could feel the scrape of air against his throat as his lungs forced it in and out of his body. His sluggish blood rushed through his tightening arteries, the pressure of it truly making his head spin with each beat as his fuzzy brain struggled to handle the feeling.

He was trapped in the truest sense of the word. A wrong movement or, terrifyingly, a right one could make Melkor press down and crush his neck with the smallest of ease, and yet Mairon bared it willingly for him. The smooth, pale column being marred as it was, the Maia still laid down before his master and willingly placed his life before him, just as he had always done. It was something neither of them ever tired of.

Then it was too much, the strain reaching past some invisible barrier because suddenly there was _pain,_ the back of his throat scraping against the floor and Melkor still forcing it relentlessly downward. It was sharp and agonizing, his throat closing completely and grinding against itself and Mairon could do nothing to stop the harsh, choking cough that clawed its way out as if to escape the sensation. He writhed, trying to gasp in more air and then the pressure vanished, which instead of letting him breathe only dissolved him into a fit of coughing that tore at his already abused throat as it tried to cope with what had just happened. He was barely aware of Melkor kneeling down, looming over him until a pair of hands stroked his face and he looked up to see the Vala’s face inches from his own.

 _“Shhh,”_  Melkor’s voice coaxed him, soft as ever yet carrying that undeniable tone of command that had him stiffening his spine in response. “ _Breathe.”_

That one word, so simple and yet such a deep demand that Mairon could do nothing but obey. He _breathed,_ finally taking in a long, deep breath of air that his throat had refused to let him have. His lungs ached at the feeling and his throat pounded a duet of pain with his pulse, but it was the most beautiful, incredible breath of air he had taken in a long, long time. He held it, unwilling to let it go, forcing himself back into balance, before releasing it and taking another, and another.

Melkor, mercifully, allowed this, merely watching him and running his fingertips down Mairon’s face, stroking along his neck. “Better?” he asked when he finally heard the normalcy return to his Maia’s breathing. “Good.” The change in his tone was obvious and shining, golden eyes opened to stare at him in excited anticipation. In a flash Melkor grabbed a fistful of that wild hair and pulled hard enough for a hiss to escape through Sauron’s teeth. “And now that I’ve conquered you, you will get the treatment that all of my enemies do.” With sharp, impatient movements he flipped Mairon’s robes out of the way and went to undo his leggings.

Eager to help him, Mairon wiggled into his grip, his heart hammering and his breaths panting. “I am more than a lowly elf, though,” he whispered impishly, unable to force that small part of his pride entirely down while it smarted at the perceived insult.

Another gasp of pain, nearly a cry as Melkor’s hand jerked his hair and forced his head to the side, pain erupting across his scalp only to be replaced by pain in his neck as lips and teeth sank into his flesh. “You don’t get to choose what you are,” Melkor snarled at him dangerously, his free hand closing around one of Mairon’s wrists and pinning it against the floor. “No prisoner of mine does.” His essence, his energy was stifling, pressing down on him, forcing him to bend to his will or snap under the onslaught of the Vala.

And Mairon, naturally, as he always did, _bent,_ going limp and letting all of the resistance drain from him. “Forgive me, my lord,” he whispered through the pain. “I am yours to do with as you wish.” There was something so intoxicating about it, giving all of himself away, throwing everything to the mercy of one so much mightier and more powerful than he, knowing the other could take his ëala and easily tear it to pieces if he so wished. It was liberating, it was devotion in the purest sense of the word and Mairon gladly let his master take control over all of him.

“Yes,” Melkor growled, sheathing himself inside of the Maia with a hard, forceful thrust that had his lieutenant gasping for air, “you are.”

He started at a rough and vicious pace, unabashedly taking what was rightfully his with every movement. All of his weight pressed down upon Mairon, pinning him to the floor while he claimed the other’s mouth, forcing it open with his tongue as if he wanted to devour Mairon from every opening he possibly had. He was unceasing, relentless, his thrusts hard and hitting him so deeply that his Maia was keening from it, broken noises whimpering out of his throat as he was taken in the wildest fashion by his master.

It was incredible, fierce. Mairon struggled for every breath and yet he never, ever wanted it to stop. As pinned as he was, as conquered and forced, he still managed to arch into Melkor’s movements, meeting every one of his thrusts with such a sharp spike of pleasure that his entire body felt like it would be set aflame. Only Melkor’s essence, so purely cold that he could almost feel the frost forming on his skin, kept it in place. But he was still unraveling in his mind if not his body, his thoughts so blurred and dizzy and focusing only on the feeling of Melkor slamming in and out of them. Almost on its own volition, one of his legs freed itself and wrapped around Melkor’s hip, an intimacy that no prisoner would ever do but this disobedience Melkor allowed, if he even noticed or cared. It allowed the Vala to hit him even deeper, reach _right there—_

A sharp cry was torn from Mairon’s lips, pure pleasure and yet liquid fire assaulting his nerves, muscles deep inside of him coiling against his master to hold him there, keep him so deeply inside that he would never leave. Yet Melkor did, moving straight in and out in an endless cycle of pleasure that had them both climbing higher and higher until it reached a crescendo, Mairon screaming through his climax from the cage of his lord’s body while Melkor followed him, pouring his very essence into the Maia and marking him as one of his own.

It was so good, yet so strange and different than the golden, soft light he was used to swirling about inside of his body. Melkor’s essence, his ëala was darkness and chaos, sending his own rhythms into a discordant dance while it ran through Mairon’s being. Everything felt just a little off, his heartbeat, his breathing, everything as they changed ever so slightly to accommodate the dark Vala’s energy as it threaded through his body. Eventually it would be gone, Mairon’s own ëala purging out the intrusion and it wandering back to its original owner, but for now Mairon could enjoy the feeling of both body and soul being filled to the point of breaking.

“Mine,” Melkor growled in his ear, nails scratching down his shoulder possessively. “Mine.”

Mairon turned his head to capture Melkor’s lips with his own. “Yours,” he affirmed, resting in the other’s grip.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much a sequel of the last chapter. But this one is much more about roleplaying, because honestly the lack of Melkor/Fingolfin content I see genuinely surprises me.

Perfection had always been Mairon's ideal, a state he aspired to be and one he wished to impose on others around him. It governed all of his actions, honed his logic and wits to their razor-sharp, impenetrable edge that made him so vital for running Angband and Melkor's armies in general. It was what made him so _good_ at everything he decided to do, nothing grated on Mairon more than mistakes, missteps, or tiny little flaws that stopped something from being the absolute perfection that it could be. That was why everything that came out of his forge, no matter how big or small, was breathtaking. That was why he was so good at deceiving and charming others, every action a calculated and measured move all designed to make someone listen to what he had to say. That was why among all of his many abilities as an Ainu, shapeshifting was his greatest skill.

Which was precisely why he glared at himself so furiously in the mirror now. Or, rather, Fingolfin glared at him.

Except it wasn't Fingolfin. There was something _wrong_ about it, something that he was missing from the picture, something that set his teeth on edge because he couldn't find out what it was. He certainly looked enough like the dead Ñoldo king to make anyone turn as he walked by, but they were all fools who wouldn't understand, and they weren't the ones he was trying to convince.

Mairon narrowed his eyes, now a startling blue compared to his own polished golden ones, and tried to look once more. His hair had lost its shine, all of the color darkened until it resembled the very night sky that the Eldar loved so much, and fell to his waist in perfectly straight lines rather than curl at the ends like his own tended to do. He pinched a lock and held it between his fingers, feeling the texture of it against his skin. It was soft, so soft it felt like silk, but had Fingolfin's hair truly been like this? Perhaps it had been thicker, perhaps rougher, or what if it had been so fine that every single strand was no more than a whisper in the air, a crystal filament as delicate as a single strand of a spider's web? Some of the elves in the dungeons felt like that, could Fingolfin have been the same?

His irritation growing, he abandoned the hair and ran his fingertips down his face, intimately mapping out every plane and angle, how each line curved into the other. He had only seen the king from a distance and had to use his best guess in order to replicate it, which of course meant everything was _wrong._ Mairon knew he looked like an elf, but was it _this_ elf? He glared for a long, hard moment, then decided that his cheeks were too wide. Just like that his face shifted like melting wax, gliding seamlessly into a more narrow, thin frame. Better, but not perfect.

If only he could have touched Fingolfin, only for a second! He could have _felt_ the elf's skin under his hands, felt its softness and complexion. He could have read the shape of his bones and how they constructed the face, he could have understood every muscle and twitch and know how to replicate them. He could have let the hair run through his fingers, know just how watery-soft it was and precisely it flowed with his every movement. Mairon could have read all of it and more, how the air flowed through Fingolfin when he spoke and how to mimic it perfectly, how his shoulders were held, how he _walked..._ at a simple touch he could have _become_ Fingolfin and not this shabby, pale imitation he was looking at now.

But he had to get it right, he had to for Melkor. He knew how his lord would love to see him like this, walking in the skin of his hated enemy, one who had wounded him and then had the audacity of robbing of him of his revenge by the talons of Thorondor. But he, he could give Melkor _anything_ he wanted, _be_ anything he wanted even if the lord himself was not aware of it. Mairon was the only servant Melkor needed, the only one his gaze would turn to when desire would strike him, all his and his alone. For what was the point of having someone else when he had a Maia who could so very easily fulfill everything he could want?

_He remembered lying on the floor, now seeming so much colder and harder than it had been seconds ago in their passion. Melkor’s was above him, the weight of his body and soul still pressing against Mairon as he held the other there, displaying his claim over the Maia. Mairon basked in it, his throat still sore from the abuse it had just taken, but he couldn’t care less. Being under Melkor was far too amazing to worry about such things, especially when his master enjoyed it so thoroughly._

_It made his thoughts wander upon a new idea. Simple in its brilliance and yet he knew the weight of his own question before it left his lips. “Would you like me to become the elven king?” he whispered._

_Melkor froze. Mairon would have absolutely loved to see his face, but the Vala was currently buried in his neck and it was impossible. But then he sat up and Mairon could see the wonder and intrigue that chased each other across his lord’s scintillating eyes as he looked down upon his lieutenant. “Could you?” was his answer._

_It was all Mairon needed to hear and see. Far more, if he was being honest with himself. “Of course, my lord.”_

He knew what would happen when Melkor saw him like this. Melkor’s anger for his dead foe ran deep, but it would be so _wonderful_ to have all of that anger unleashed, for it to be sated at last. He wanted to see how his lord’s eyes would take in his new form, something so beyond expectation that even the great Vala would be stunned. He wanted all of it, the anger and passion and for his lord to so utterly enjoy his newest plaything that even thinking about it left Mairon feeling a little weak at the knees. He could almost taste what would be done to him.

Which would happen if he could only get the elf _right._

Mairon sighed throat his nose and put the mirror down, reaching up to rub his temples. He could stand here for days on end picking over every little thing he thought was a flaw and yet he was certain he would still not be satisfied with the result. It didn’t matter how he liked his form, only that Melkor did and that it was convincing enough for Melkor to recognize who it was. With that in mind he took a deep breath and turned around.

Of course Melkor had not noticed anything, too absorbed in his current task over a map to pay attention to what his lieutenant had been doing for the past half hour. Eru above he could be _so_ unobservant, so occupied or distracted by something that had captured his attention that he failed to notice anything else that was going on even if it was right under his nose. Well, no matter, that only made it easier to surprise him. “My lord,” Mairon called softly, making sure to keep his own voice the same so he wouldn’t startle the other _too_ much. That would always end painfully, no matter who was unlucky enough to be the one to do so.

The eyes of the Vala looked up and Mairon saw him visibly stiffen as they were laid upon the form he now clothed himself in. There was a flicker of deep, bitter anger across his face, but that soon gave away to awe and surprise. "Incredible," Melkor breathed, standing up and taking slow, measured steps toward him.

His walk was different, though, and not even because of the limp. It was more like Melkor stalked at him like some ferocious beast preying upon his weaker form. Mairon wasn't so distracted as to not notice it, nor the way Melkor's expression had changed, becoming colder and more distant the longer he gazed upon Mairon’s new form. He was unreadable, but it was obvious that he was seeing Fingolfin in front of him, not his lieutenant. Mairon held his chin high, sliding into that picture of arrogance that he had seen so many elves make before he broke them in the dungeons.

Melkor paused just a step away, his presence nearly suffocating him, as if the space around them was filled with water and not air. Then Melkor grabbed his chin, charred fingers scraping roughly against his too-delicate flesh, and pulled him closer. He was forced to stumble forward and until he had to crane his head up to look at Melkor’s face. That beautiful, terrifying face. Imposing as the sheer cliffs of Thangorodrim, dark as a thundercloud, predictable as lightning, ready to spit fire from those snarling lips.

It was the face of Morgoth Bauglir, the Black Foe of the World.

“Truly you have outdone yourself, little one,” Melkor whispered, his tone not at all matching his expression. “I scarcely expected such a masterful copy of that wretched Noldo to stand in front of me, yet here you are.” His nails began to dig into his skin, sharp pricks of pain in his face.

He would have attempted a bow, but his current position made that impossible. “Is there anything you find displeasing, or in need of changing?” he whispered, hiding the shivers that wracked up and down his spine from the sensation.

“Hmm,” Melkor mused, eyeing him before a small smile played across his face. “Your nose is too long.” He smirked, watching Mairon scowl and fix it within the blink of an eye. “And his hair was braided.”

Of course, he had been going into battle, after all. Quickly, Mairon’s fingers raked across his new hair and heavens above he _loathed_ how it felt between his hands. Normally he didn’t care about how different his other forms felt but this one made him so angry and wrong even when it was, apparently, very good. He hated how Fingolfin’s jaw curved, how the flare of his skull spread under his face, how his eyes slanted and how his lips were shaped. It made him so angry and a part of him wondered if it was because he hated the elf so much or if it was merely something as superficial as appearances. Even as briefly distracted as he was with his thoughts, his hands still moved, pulling his hair into a tight braid that he didn’t bother to tie by the time he got to the end of it.

“Ah, there you are, now you are perfect.” Melkor’s gaze roamed over him and wherever it went Mairon felt a shiver, as if his very bones were being touched. “But your ëala is still the same. Golden, glowing, filled with your music. No matter who you are I can still tell it’s you.”

Mairon blinked at him, a thread of confusion running through his features. “If you like, master, I can hide it for you. I am skilled enough to do it. Unfortunately I cannot replicate the king’s fëa, though, as that is beyond any power. At best I can only craft an illusion.”

“Don’t,” Melkor answered immediately, with such sharpness that Mairon was startled to hear it. “That inner light is the only thing keeping me from destroying you this very second, Mairon. Do not become Fingolfin so much that I cannot recognize who is in front of me.”

There was such an edge to his voice, like the tip of a knife hovering over his throat before it sank in. It made Mairon’s heart race to hear it, excitement trembling in his veins and he had to force himself to act regal, to become the role he was clothing himself in. However, his playfulness could not be entirely conquered and he spoke, “Am I not supposed to be Fingolfin, though? The High King of the Ñoldor and here to challenge the Dark Lord to single combat?”

To say what happened next took him by surprise would have been an understatement. There were simply no words for the pure shock that engulfed him when his scalp erupted in agony and he found himself suddenly slammed onto his desk, the breath driving out of his lungs in a sharp, pained gasp while he gazed wide-eyed at the figure of Melkor towering above him. Something had happened, he had to have missed something, yet his memory could find nothing except standing with Melkor in front of him one moment and then the next he was sprawled on his back. How had the king ever managed to avoid his attacks when he moved so quickly?

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way!” Melkor snarled and Mairon had a deep, instinctual understanding that it was not _him_ who Melkor was talking to. Cruel fingers yanked at his hair so hard that he felt his eyes sting, but his lord was unrelenting. “You will never speak to me in my own kingdom in that manner!”

A part of him was still desperate, riding on the thrill of his master being so commanding, while that _sane_ part of his brain decided that it would be a good idea to reel the Vala back a little. “Y-Yes, my lord,” he gasped out, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to take the reins to his pain, becoming its master instead of the other way around.

There was a pause from Melkor. The grip on him did not loosen, nor did he feel the dark anger crashing over him abate, but there was a brief moment of clarity. Then came Melkor’s voice, “Do not let me destroy you in my passion, Mairon.”

The words made no sense, utter confusion reigning as he tried to keep up with what was said to him. Mostly how in the world was he, a Maia, supposed to actually stop Melkor from doing _anything_  he wanted to do, but also _oh,_ Melkor didn’t trust himself to be restrained. A shiver passed through his body at the thought. He _wanted_ it, he would try his best to help Melkor from going too far but he was honestly the worst candidate in this situation for such a thing. Nonetheless he nodded as much as his hair would allow, mostly because he was afraid that Melkor wouldn’t continue if he didn’t. “I will, master,” he whispered for good measure.

“Call me Morgoth,” came the next imperious order that had his bones quaking from it. “That is my name among them, is it not?”

This was absurd, Melkor had barely even touched him at this point, he shouldn’t be this aroused for any reason but he was nearly dizzy from the force of it. Mairon twisted his face into an angry, defiant scowl and spat out with much more confidence than he felt, “That and many more, Blackhands! There are a thousand names for the one who poisoned the world and stole the Silmarils from their rightful owners!”

He would have said more, but a vice grip closed down on his throat, choking down his words while five distinct flares of fire clawed into his flesh, obliterating his capacity to think of anything else. His first instinct was to reach his hands up to pry the one on his neck away, but instead he curled his fingers into fists, holding onto his desk instead. ****“The Silmarils are mine,”**** Melkor’s voice thundered around him, deep and threaded into his whole being, as if he heard it with his head instead of his ears. Every single sound was the beat of ice upon rocks, the roar of the molten earth erupting into the sky, the desolate and hollow emptiness of the spaces between stars and Mairon quaked from the might he heard before him. ****“And shall be mine forever more.”****

His blood was roaring in his head, goaded upon by that voice and the power he felt in it, until the hand vanished and he could take in a single gulp of air. It was all he was allowed, for Melkor yanked him to his feet by the braid, only to spin him around and shove him over the desk in a position that he was much more familiar with. But his lord did not take him right away, oh no, Melkor wanted to enjoy himself upon his enemy.

Melkor wrapped his hand over the braid again and again until he held nearly all of it in his grip, holding it unrelentingly tight, and then pain erupted in the back of Mairon’s neck as Melkor’s nails found their way there once more. It was like being caught in the claws of a wildcat, sinking so deeply into him that Mairon cried out in pain as every movement sent a bolt of agony down his spine. “The great king of the Ñoldor is now in his proper position,” Melkor purred at him, the divine resonance gone from his voice but still utterly powerful all the same. “Bent beneath me, as he should be.”

Urging Melkor on would be stupid, playing with fire in the most dangerous and careless way possible. But Mairon played with fire every single day down in his forge, and after living with his lord for so many centuries it was only natural for some of the Vala’s carelessness to rub off on him. “Get your hands off of me, Morgoth. I will never bow to a master of slaves!” he snarled.

A scream was torn from him as Melkor’s hand scraped down his skin, splitting it with the force of his nails and leaving angry red furrows in their wake. It was like five brands had just been dragged down his back and the pain pulsed hotly in his nerves, made only more sensitive by the cool air tingling against them. His robes became tight around him, then he understood why as he heard them tearing open, exposing him to the world with only the tattered remains hanging loosely from his front. It all took place in the span of a few seconds, a small blessing, which was then shattered as Melkor’s hand came down on his hip with all the weighted fury of the Lord of Angband behind it.

He gritted his teeth on the next scream that wanted to break out, only letting it loose in his throat. Then there came another, and another, each time bringing a new wave of hot pain that took his breath away until the air all but quivered in his lungs, too uncertain of what the next second would bring. He was not so numbed by pain, though, that he did not feel his lord shoving inside of him, immediately sinking in as far as he would go while yanking on Mairon’s braid, forcing him to bend up, up until his spine was curved like a taut bow. Pain and pleasure coiled deep in his gut, shaking his entire body from the tide rising in him and from how Melkor ruthlessly repeated the process again and again.

 _“I will poison your veins with my darkness,”_  Melkor was growling into his ear with depraved gentleness, every word from dripping from his lips like a bitter, dry wine. _“My essence will devour you from the inside, elf king, and the pain shall never leave you until the end of your days.”_  Suddenly his other hand was on Mairon’s throat, pulling him ever up even as his iron grip robbed him of any more air that he might have. _“But you shall not die unless I command it! I own all of you and you are now mine to play with as I wish, I can tear apart all of your fëa with no more than a thought!”_

Just like that, with little warning, there came the _lash—_

But it was no physical lash across already abused skin, oh no, this force was naked to the eye, purely supernatural and wrapped tightly in the Dark Vala’s energy and it sank into Mairon’s very core with lightning-riddled teeth. Agony, harsh, cruel agony like the sharpened edge of an icicle exploded from the line where Melkor’s ëala had struck his own, marring the golden, ordered architecture of his being with scorching darkness that hooked into him like a burr and _twisted—_

He was beyond screaming, beyond making any noise. As if goaded to compete with the pure, exquisite sensation of the pain, the heat and ecstasy setting his nerves afire leaped to the very tips of his skin as if trying to burst through it in incinerating flames and through it all he could hear Melkor groaning, overtaken by whatever thrill his own body was experiencing at the moment. He could feel his master’s essence pouring inside of him, marking him, trailing along the raw lines of his ëala like a tongue swiping over fresh wounds and it made him _undone._

Air came back to him, giving him just enough to groan brokenly through his peak, shivering as waves and waves of pleasure pounded over his body, awakening the aches and pains as it did. Mairon slumped onto the desk, energy utterly spent, but before he could fall hands caught him and pulled him until his bare back pressed against Melkor’s chest.

Lips found his ear almost tenderly, fingertips exploring the marks left behind on his neck while a softly comforting shushing hissed into his ear. “Are you alright?” came the whispered question, filling Mairon with puzzlement because his lord rarely, if ever asked that. He never needed to.

He swallowed, his throat feeling like it had suddenly filled with a thick, viscous liquid, and fought down the cough that wanted to form. “Yes,” he whispered back and meant it, even as his form shivered. He was fine and he _did_ enjoy it, but the wrathful storm that had blown over him and, for the moment, abated still left him quivering from its memory and the pulsing, aching pains all over his body. But those would heal, it was his ëala, his inner self that frightened him more than anything else. Melkor had never, ever done such a thing to him before, never used his essence and energy as a means to harm the Maia in a way that truly hurt him.

Mairon knew the strength of his own spirit was potent, even among his kin. It was no presumptuous fancy of his own inflated pride to think that he was one of the strongest Maiar to currently walk Arda, he had seen proof of it many times. But Melkor, even in his weakened state, was the still mightiest of all the Ainur and although Mairon never forgot that fact, seeing a glimpse of his master’s true power reminded him that he was still very much a devotee bowing at the feet of a titan. He _knew_ in that deep, instinctual knowing that is born within the space of a heartbeat, how much Melkor had actually restrained himself with that blow. That if the Vala truly wished he could have utterly destroyed Mairon and even though the other could have put up enough of a fight to make sure it wasn’t extremely easy for him, it would have in the end not cost him much effort.

But that…that was not here nor there. Those thoughts were phantoms in his mind, conjured up by the memory of the pain and what he had just witnessed. Mairon stubbornly pushed the thoughts from his mind and instead focused on the touch that ghosted over his body, examining all of the little wounds left behind. “Would you have really destroyed Fingolfin’s fëa with that?” he asked, making sure his tone was that of detached curiosity.

A deep, rumbling chuckle that plucked at his spine, breaths panting at the base of his neck and raising the hairs there. “He would have _wished_  I had killed him after that,” Melkor replied, his hand resting on Mairon’s hip, hovering over the fresh nail marks. Despite his light, boasting words, there was a thread of concern running in his voice and Mairon could feel the pit in his stomach forming because his master _knew._ “Change back to your true self, little one. I wish to look upon you again.”

It was as easy as breathing to make the shift, his form blurring and melding back into the shape that was most familiar and comfortable to him. His face set itself right again, his hands were back to their long, beautiful shape, and Mairon took a smug pride in how much better _his_ body fitted against Melkor’s than that abominable elf’s. “My lord,” he whispered, reaching behind him to stroke Melkor’s cheek.

“Mmm, much better,” Melkor murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck among the strands of his fiery hair, half of it still held in a braid by pure determination. “Come here.” He began walking, tugging the Maia after him.

Mairon tried to follow where his master led him, but his legs wobbled dangerously from the exertion and he stumbled, catching himself on Melkor’s arm most ungracefully. “I’m sorry, master, I—”

He was supported and pulled back up with little to no effort on Melkor’s part. But the Dark Lord was smiling, even if it was one of deep amusement. “Keep up, Lieutenant,” he said, before they were finally close enough to push him down onto the bed. “It is most uncomfortable to lay on the floor.”

Mairon tried to sit up, but an insistent hand on his chest pushed him back down, the command of _stay_ not needing to be said when it was written so clearly in Melkor’s every move. “My lord?” he asked.

“Do not strain yourself,” Melkor said, climbing in after him. “Rest for now, and recover. I wish now only to look upon my handiwork.” His hand traced along Mairon’s neck, and down, the imprint of his cold touch lingering on Mairon’s skin long after it had passed. “That is an order.”

His eyes fluttered at the words, their dull glow making faint shadows of his eyelashes dance across his features. “As you wish, my lord,” he murmured, letting his eyes slide shut until only the smallest sliver of gold remained to show that he was not, truly, asleep. He would not sleep now, but he could at least rest until his body righted itself.


End file.
